


Roommates

by jonius_belonius (Joni_Beloni)



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: Drama, M/M, Prison, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 11:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6050157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joni_Beloni/pseuds/jonius_belonius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst happens, and Mike winds up in prison.  He spends his first two weeks keeping his head down and trying to stay out of trouble.  Then his new cellmate shows up, and turns out to be none other than U.S. Marshall Ron Da’Mico.  He’s undercover, and wants Mike’s special skills to help break up a drug ring operating out of the prison.  The reward if Mike agrees?  His freedom.  The risk?  His sanity and quite possibly his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Roommates

**Author's Note:**

> Please check the tags.

Mike lay stretched out on his bunk, orange jumpsuit open and halfway off, having returned from dinner two hours ago. He had one hand down his pants and was jerking off half-heartedly. Jeers erupted at the end of the cell block, the same jeers he remembered too well from his own arrival. He froze mid-jerk.

Based on his two weeks of experience inside, he judged it unusually late in the day for a new prisoner to be processed in. His entire body tensed up, as it did every time the shouting started at one end of the cell block and followed the unlucky newcomer in a rippling wave from cell to cell.

This time, the taunts and lewd comments swelled to a crescendo just outside Mike's cell, slowly trailed off, and then his door slid open. Mike removed his hand from his pants and rolled onto his back.

Since the parole of his previous cellmate three days ago, Mike had the space to himself. He'd known it wouldn't last, prison overcrowding being what it was. He'd fervently hoped for another quiet, non-threatening cellmate like Warren, who went by the nickname Books for some reason Mike never figured out. Everyone in here had a nickname. Mike was still New Guy, but would most likely be saddled with his own _nom de gaol_ eventually, something like Worm, or Ghost, or Blue Eyes. He’d take Books if he could, but he didn’t think it worked that way.

He kept his eyes averted, because he had learned his lesson regarding unwelcome eye contact the night of his arrest, in the holding cell in Manhattan. The new prisoner entered the enclosed space carrying the requisite bedding and change of clothes.  

"Mike Ross, meet Ronnie Rodriguez. Play nice, boys."

And that was it. Introduction over. The guard left, the door clanged shut, and they were alone.

Mike didn't get up. Possession was one hundred percent of the law in here. He liked his lower bunk, and would possibly fight to keep it, depending on the strength of the opposition. It didn't take long before curiosity overrode good sense, and maybe he hadn't learned his lesson after all, because he allowed his gaze to travel up the man's body, from his slip-on sneakers, to his compact, well-muscled frame clothed in garish orange, all the way to his bearded face and bald head.

His all too familiar bearded face and bald head.

"Oh, fuck me," Mike breathed in disbelief, and then louder, "What the hell is a U.S. -- "

And just that fast, the man launched himself at Mike, pinning him to the bed, clamping a hand over his mouth, and holding him in place with all of the dense, whipcord strength that Mike remembered.

"Keep your voice down," U.S. Marshal Ron Da’Mico snarled into Mike's face, "or I swear I will snap your fucking neck in two. Understand?"

Mike nodded as best he could. The hard, calloused hand lifted from his mouth, but Da’Mico remained pressed on top of him. "What are you doing here?" Mike whispered, while part of his mind was busy freaking out, and telling himself that his dumb animal body was not reacting to the intimate contact in the way that it was. Because that would be disastrous.

"Undercover op," Da’Mico whispered back. "Plus, as a bonus, I'm here to offer you a way out."

Mike had spent the last two weeks -- the past six months, in truth -- ruthlessly squelching every speck of hope that he could avoid serving his sentence. His heart sped up at Da’Mico's words, but he refused to believe him. He couldn't afford to, not if he wanted to retain his precarious balance on the razor thin edge of sanity, and not if he wished to avoid the all too easy slide into black despair. "Bullshit," he spat back.

Da’Mico gave a bark of laughter. "Aw, don't be like that, pretty. You're a smart guy. So be smart now. At least hear me out."

Mike thought rapidly, doing his best to ignore what the feel of Da’Mico's solid, muscular body was doing to him. Finally, "Let me up, and I'll listen to what you've got to say," he got out in a breathless voice, although it wasn't like he exactly had a choice, pinned down as he was.

Moving deliberately, Da’Mico rubbed against him, letting him feel the strength and bulk of his body, and the growing hardness between his legs, which found a corresponding hardness inside Mike's loose pants, much to Mike's embarrassment.

"And what if I don't want to let you up?" Da’Mico husked. "Maybe I should make all of your prison fears come true right here and right now, and show you what you have to look forward to for the next four years." He rubbed again. "Or maybe I should say, prison dreams, not fears." He wedged a hand down the back of Mike's pants, squeezing his bare bottom and bringing them closer together.

Mike was having trouble breathing. "And what if I report you to Gibbs?" It was an empty threat. He didn’t think Gibbs had any pull in here. Still, she was technically Da’Mico’s superior in the federal food chain.

Da’Mico let out a snort of laughter that Mike felt against his ear. "Bitch don't care about you. You oughta know that by now."

Mike did know. Anita Gibbs would likely approve of whatever pain and humiliation Da’Mico chose to deal out. But he'd heard something in Da’Mico's voice when he spoke of her, which sounded like disdain, perhaps mixed with frustration. Gibbs did not have a friend in Ron Da’Mico, Mike deduced.

For some reason, this realization eased a portion of his sick fear at the situation he was in, and gave him the courage to switch tactics, hoping to take Da’Mico by surprise, like he'd done in the holding cell six months ago. Instead of struggling, Mike went lax and still for a moment, and then brought his hands up to the other man's shoulders, clutching and massaging as his pelvis ground up into him.

Now it was Da’Mico's turn to freeze, eyes wide with surprise. "Well, well," he murmured, grinning wolfishly through his beard. "How about that?"

Before Mike could guess his intentions, he struck like a snake, head first, tongue out, and captured Mike's mouth for a brutal kiss. Shock kept Mike immobile for too long, and by the time he could move again, his nerve endings were too lit up, tingling with hot electricity, and he grew more pliant, submitting to the kiss, aiding and abetting, and running his hands up and down Da’Mico's wide back, feeling the shift of muscles under the coarse cloth of his jumpsuit. The marshal’s beard caressed his face, surprisingly soft, and the cell faded around them, as their history together ceased to exist, at least for the moment.

Perhaps Da’Mico had never counted on Mike giving in so easily, or had never intended things to advance so far, because he lifted his head with obvious reluctance, and gazed down at Mike, eyes filled with questions.

"What are you doing, kid?" he asked, voice more gentle than it had been. "This ain't a game."

"I know that."

"You're missing your pretty fiancée that bad, huh?" He touched his thumb to Mike's lower lip and Mike jerked his head to the side.

He did miss Rachel, but she'd stopped being his fiancée five months ago, when Mike had lost his head and confessed his feelings for Harvey. Three months after that, he'd confessed those same feelings to the man himself, but Harvey had virtually disappeared after one memorable night together.

Mike missed the both of them, and suddenly his response to Da’Mico seemed like a double betrayal. He shoved at the other man's chest, and Da’Mico rolled off of him, but did not immediately leave his bunk. There wasn't much room, and they were pressed so close together that Da’Mico had to brace a hand on the wall next to Mike's head. His expression had grown serious, and his dark eyes shone with an intensity that made Mike wonder what he was thinking.

Da’Mico opened his mouth as if to say something, but just then, the overhead lights dimmed once before brightening again.

Mike swallowed. "Bed check in five minutes. Better get up there."

Da’Mico hesitated, mouth crimping with annoyance. "This ain't over."

"This?"

"This conversation." He stood and hoisted himself up, graceful as a gymnast, onto the upper bunk.

"Right," whispered Mike to the empty space beside him. "The conversation."

***

The guards left the floor, and the lights went off for the night. Mike tensed when the overhead bunk creaked, but Da’Mico only leaned over the edge, speaking so softly that Mike had to strain to hear.

"You repeat any of what I'm about to tell you, and I get you sent to solitary for a month, minimum. _Capisce_?"

"Who am I going to tell?" Mike muttered against his pillow. Into the silence, he added, "Yeah, I understand."

"Good. Like I said, I'm here undercover. There's some bad guys in here -- "

Mike snorted out a soft laugh. "No shit."

"Can the commentary, junior. These guys, the Vice Cobras -- "

"The Vice Cobras? Are you shitting me right now?"

"I am not shitting you. They are dealing drugs inside, and constructing a decent sized drug cartel on the outside, plus ordering hits, and kidnappings, and all kinds of bad stuff that would probably make a pretty, blue-eyed college boy like you mess your drawers."

"Pfft. I watched _Breaking Bad."_

"Ah, Jesus … "

"Fine. Whatever. Good luck with that. Kudos to you for doing something about it." The words came out more tartly than he'd intended.

"You can do something about it too, Mike."

"Um, no. Not interested. I'd prefer not to leave this place in a body bag." He didn't know which particular group of scary looking cons were the perps Da’Mico was after, but he'd just as soon stay as far away from them as possible.

"Not even if I promise to protect you? Not even if it means amnesty? You help me bring these guys down, and you walk out of here a free man."

Mike covered his eyes with one arm and shook his head, even though he doubted Da’Mico could see him in the dark. "I don't know what you expect from me. I can't get close to those guys. I get the death glare just from standing around breathing in and out, and not just from them. At least half the guards look like they'd love to shiv me. Or shank me. Whatever."

"That's because you look weak. You act like a victim. And because at least half the guards at this prison are dirty. I know which ones aren't, and two of those also know who I am, and why I'm here."

Something occurred to Mike, and he scowled up at the underside of Da’Mico’s bunk. “Since when do U.S. Marshals involve themselves in this kind of stuff anyway? Wouldn’t this be more suited to the DEA?”

Da’Mico gave a surprised sounding grunt. “Maybe. Federal prisoner transport falls under our purview. We detain them, house them, and make sure they are delivered to prison in one piece.”

“And … ?”

A long sigh came from above Mike. “I spent a couple of weeks with a prisoner who ended up here. He turned up a week ago, stabbed a dozen times in the shower. For a criminal, he was a good guy. Which is why I volunteered for the gig. The DEA agreed, especially when I told them I already had a contact inside. I’m officially here as a temporary liaison between the two agencies.”

Mike had heard about the stabbing, of course. He shivered, and then frowned as he realized what Da’Mico had just said. “Wait. Do you mean me? I’m your contact inside?”

“Actually, I’ve got a confidential informant embedded with one of the rival gangs.”

“Oh. Well, good for you. Consider me still confused, though. What does any of this have to do with me?"

"For obvious reasons, I'm in here with no recording devices, and no camera." A beat of silence. "That's where you come in.   You and your freaky memory."

If he had a dollar for every time in his life he’d heard that, or a variant thereof, he’d be a rich man. Surprisingly, it still stung, even coming from Da’Mico. "Just a word of advice, Ronnie: when you're trying to get someone to do something they'd rather not, it's probably a good idea to refrain from referring to them in derogatory terms such as 'freaky.' I'm just saying."

Da’Mico chose to disregard the snark. "Your presence here was just another stroke of luck, and our prior association cemented my pitch for the assignment.”

A bitter laugh escaped Mike. “Prior association? Is that what you’re calling it? I didn’t realize you were such a comedian. That never came up during our … prior association.”

“The point is, we’ve met, I’ve already had the chance to size you up – ”

“Don’t you mean feel me up?”

“I’ve sized you up, and I’ve learned the following things: you’re smart, but soft. You’re loyal to a fault. You’re quick on your feet, willing to take risks, and good at improvising if the situation requires it. And you are vulnerable as fuck in here. You need an ally.”

Mike couldn’t argue with any of that, even if he did not care for the “soft” comment. “So how do you propose to break up this drug ring?” He found himself growing interested in spite of himself.

“The plan is simple. I get to know these guys, prove myself to them, and work my way close enough to the inner circle to find out how they operate, how they’re organized, and who their contacts are."

"Solid plan."

"And you're going to be right there, by my side, every step of the way, listening, watching, memorizing conversations, and faces, and anything else which might later prove to be of value in cracking this ring wide open."

It sounded so preposterous that Mike wanted to laugh again. He resisted the urge, and instead asked carefully, "What makes you think they would let me within ten feet of them? You said it yourself, and even I know damn well that my face doesn't exactly scream 'thug'. That is simply a fact of life. I don't know a shiv from a shank, and there is just no way they're going to look at the two of us and mistake us for best buddies."

"Agreed. That's why I'm going to present you as my pet."

Indignation robbed Mike of speech for several seconds. "Your _what_ now?"

"My pet. My bitch. My fuck toy. You choose which you prefer, and we'll go with that."

"I think I'd prefer none of the above."

A scoffing laugh whispered in the darkness above Mike. "Right. And I’m sure you’d prefer not to be here at all. Life sucks like that sometimes. You take the night and think it over. I'd guess that big brain of yours is going to tell you to take the deal, because you and I? We're just going to be playacting to get a job done. If you don't take the deal, when I'm finished I leave you on your own, and I'll bet you anything you want that within a week or less, you'll be playing that role for real. And, I don't know, maybe you're into it. You sure felt into it a few minutes ago. They ain't going to be gentle, though."

Mike's mouth had gone dry, and his heart beat like a cornered animal. "And you would be?" He'd meant it as a joke, and was annoyed with himself when it came out sounding more like a plea from a desperate man.

"I told you. We'd just be pretending." The bed creaked, and Da’Mico's blanket rustled as he rearranged himself above Mike. "That is, unless you say the word. Anytime you want me in your bed, pretty, just whistle and I'll be there. And yeah, I'd be as gentle as a goddamn butterfly, if that's what you wanted. Something tells me, though, that ain't what you want."

***

Hours later, when Mike finally fell asleep, he dreamed of Harvey. The lay together on their backs, staring up at an endless blue sky, floating on turquoise water that smelled like jasmine and was the temperature of bath water. Their sailboat made lazy circles, turning on a tight axis, like a compass seeking true north. They were both naked, Mike noticed.

"We should put on sunscreen," he said, causing Harvey to turn onto his side and stare at him, head propped up on one hand.

"Sunscreen won't save you, Mike," he said, as solemn as Mike had ever seen him.

"Why not?"

"Haven't you noticed? You're drowning."

Mike made a scoffing noise. "I'm fine."

But the boat began turning faster and faster, accelerating at an impossible rate. Mike was thrown across the deck, against the rail, where he clung and gaped down at the maelstrom that had opened up beneath them. He turned to Harvey to tell him they needed to do something _now_ , but Harvey was gone. Had he already gone under? Had he ever been there with Mike?

The boat canted sharply to the side, as if trying to expel Mike. He clung on with every bit of strength he possessed, all the while moaning in fear.

Something touched his shoulder, and he cried out.

"Keep it down, kid. You're going to wake the whole block."

Mike dragged his eyes open to find Da’Mico crouched next to his bunk, shaking him. He groaned and sat up, leaning back on his elbows. "Shit. That was one weird fucking dream."

"Wanna talk about it?"

Now that Mike was fully awake, he took a moment to wearily pull his defenses back into place. "Is this supposed to be some kind of bonding moment?"

"Guess not, but it's almost time to get up. I need an answer from you now, so I know how to play things."

When Mike had fallen asleep, he hadn't yet reached a decision. Perhaps the dream had unnerved him more than he realized, because he heard himself say, "My answer is yes. I'm in."

It was too dark to see Da’Mico's expression, but Mike heard a quick hum that sounded like approval. "I knew you were a smart kid."

"I have a few conditions."

Da’Mico rose from his crouching position, and sat on the edge of the bunk, next to Mike's hip. "No guarantees, but let's hear them. Go on."

"First of all, I want the deal in writing, signed and notarized. Second, my assets that were seized? I want them back. That includes proceeds from the sale of the apartment. Third, we put a clock on your little op. If no arrests and/or convictions are made within six months, I still get my end of the bargain -- my freedom, and my money. And fourth, any investigations regarding members of my former firm are cancelled immediately, today, and forever. None of them does a day of time.” Mike had cut a deal with Gibbs to spare them all, but true to her nature, she continued to harass and pursue Jessica, and Louis, and Rachel, and Donna, and especially Harvey.

Da’Mico eyed him, face unreadable. "I'll need to run it by my handler, but I'll back you on all of that, and I'm confident it will fly. That is, with the stipulation that you cooperate fully for the entire six months. If I say you gotta do something, you don't argue, or ask questions. Out there, in gen pop, you act the part of the perfect little pet. And in here, when it's just the two of us, the chain of command persists. I give you orders, and you follow them." He paused, waiting to see if Mike had a response. "Okay. Good. We start now. Lie down and keep still."

Mike might have objected, but he figured this was his first test, which he probably shouldn't fail, so he dropped back down onto the mattress and forced himself not to flinch when Da’Mico leaned over him and touched the side of his neck. He eased lower and licked the spot his fingers had just touched, then set his lips against skin and began to suckle, gently at first, but gradually ratcheting up the suction.

Mike tried not to react, tried to ignore the lick of flame that shot through him at the contact.   This did not feel like playacting. As Da’Mico’s attentions continued for at least a minute or more, the sensation proved too much for Mike. He shut his eyes, and a heartfelt moan worked its way out of his throat. He could feel Da’Mico's mouth stretch into a smile, even as he continued to suck, so hard now that it almost hurt. Still moaning, Mike grabbed Da’Mico’s shoulders and thrust up against him, but the other man chose that moment to lift his head.

"Easy, boy," he soothed, and rubbed a finger against Mike's neck. "Perfect. That will mark you clearly as mine." He reached between Mike's legs to cup his hardening cock. "Better get rid of this, though. The sight of you in that condition would be like blood in the water for all the sharks in gen pop."

Da’Mico disappeared back up onto the top bunk, leaving Mike aching and more than a little embarrassed. He knew the man was right, though, so after a few seconds of indecision, he thrust his hand down his pants and jacked off rapidly, saving finesse for another time, and came explosively, in less time than it had taken for Da’Mico to apply his hickey. At the last instant, thankful that today was laundry day, he rolled onto his stomach and shot into the sheets, grunting and cursing as he did so.

Above him, he heard Da’Mico's sardonic laughter, followed by a slow round of applause.

As Mike caught his breath, he wondered if he'd made the right choice, and he suspected that he'd wonder the same thing many times over before the six months were up, or before the drug ring was broken up, whichever came first.

***

Mike had thought he was mentally prepared for his debut as Da’Mico's "pet," but he was wrong. When they walked together into the cafeteria for the first time, with Da’Mico's hand on the back of his neck and the mark on his neck still glowing bright red, dead silence fell for three full beats, after which it sounded as if a small bomb had detonated in the center of the room. Hoots and jeers exploded on all sides as they made their way to the food line, and continued until they carried their filled trays to the only open table and sat down.

Da’Mico had instructed Mike to keep his gaze down, which helped his nerves, but only marginally. Beside him, Da’Mico appeared unperturbed. His stony expression cracked once into a smug smirk before returning to impassivity.

Mike already knew better than to eat before receiving permission. With his hand clasping the back of Mike's neck, Da’Mico said clearly into the listening silence, "You earned your toast and juice, but you fought me, so I'm taking the rest. Behave, and maybe tomorrow I'll let you keep it all." He lifted Mike's tray and scooped eggs and canned pears onto his own, and then confiscated his carton of milk.

Raucous laughter followed his words and actions, along with shouts of encouragement (for Da’Mico,) and filthy advice (for Mike) on how best to please his man. Even the guards, Mike noted out of the corner of his eyes, appeared inappropriately amused.

He understood Da’Mico's tactics perfectly, but still fumed as he ate his meager meal. It didn't help to know that this was the easy part, and that the day would likely get more difficult from here.

***

Unsurprisingly, Da’Mico had landed a work assignment alongside Mike in the laundry.   They spent the morning with the rest of the crew running massive amounts of bedding and towels and clothing through the industrial washing machines and dryers, and sorting and folding. The afternoon crew would deliver the clean laundry to the cells.

At lunch, interest in Mike had waned somewhat, but Da’Mico still made a show of appropriating his chips and fruit and milk, leaving him with only a dry tuna sandwich and apple juice. "You suck," Mike muttered out of the side of his mouth, to which Da’Mico responded by fingering the mark on his neck and nodding his agreement.

Mike rolled his eyes, and received a whack on the back of his head.

"Brat. Show some respect."

A well-muscled man at a nearby table called out, "Why don't you let him come over here and show _me_ some respect?" His table of compatriots roared with laughter.

Da’Mico rose slowly to his feet. "What did you just say to me?"

Muscles stood too. "I said, your little bitch looks too sweet to keep to yourself."

This, Mike knew, was the challenge Da’Mico had been waiting for. What the rest of the inmates didn't know, was that Muscles was actually a confidential informant named Brian who was firmly ensconced in the Midnight Rebels, a gang which was the main rival to the Vice Cobras. (And seriously, where did they come up with these names?) Even though Mike was privy to the drama about to be enacted, he still found it a nerve-wracking sight to behold.

The two men squared up, chest to chest. Muscles pushed Da’Mico, who pushed him back, and then they were skirmishing in earnest, throwing punches and sweeping kicks, but managing not to do any significant damage to the other. Both men went down, and Mike rose to his feet, trying to see what was happening as the fight devolved into a wrestling match. He took a step forward and suddenly found his arms captured and held behind his back in a painful grip.

“Ah, ah, skinny boy. Your man don’t need no help.”

Which was demonstrably true. Da’Mico appeared to be trouncing Muscles handily. Just when it looked like he would deliver the coup de grace in the form of a punishing elbow to the head, two guards rushed in to separate them.

“Three days in solitary each,” declared the red-haired guard.

Da’Mico glared at the guard with a look of incredulous disbelief. Mike knew how he felt. He’d assured Mike that one of the non-dirty guards would intervene, and let them off with a warning. Hot, fetid breath wafted against Mike’s ear as the man who held him laughed. Mike wrenched himself free and stepped closer to the guards, hoping to deter any further harassment. He got his wish, but then Da’Mico was dragged away, and Mike was left alone in the midst of a crowd of criminals, with no protection, and no allies.

Suddenly, three days loomed like an eternity.

***

Two days later, with one day left on Da’Mico’s stint in solitary, Mike got his first visitor. He was pulled out of the laundry and told to report to the visitor’s room. When he walked in, he could scarcely believe his eyes: Harvey.

Mike sidled over and sat, slumping down in his chair with his arms crossed, and waited for Harvey to speak first.

Predictably, he opened with a question. “What happened to your eye?”

“I walked into a dinner tray.”

It turned out that Papa Jackal, the head of the Midnight Rebels, had been the man who had grabbed Mike during the fight. This was bad news for Mike, who figured it was even odds that he would be murdered before Da’Mico got out, but good news for the marshal, who was now firmly and publicly in opposition to the enemies of the Cobras. It remained to be seen if Da’Mico would capitalize on the opportunity.

“Did you report this dinner tray to the guards?” asked Harvey. Despite the jesting nature of his question, he looked worried.

“Well, this particular dinner tray has a close, personal relationship with some of the guards, so I chose to let it go.” And by letting it go, he meant crumple to the ground and groan in pain until the stars stopped circling his head.

“Maybe I should talk to the warden.”

“Harvey, why are you here?” Mike was exhausted, and in no mood for Harvey’s usual line of Closer bullshit. He appreciated the visit, but at the same time, it was awkward as hell.

Two months ago, after Mike had made himself vulnerable, had slapped his heart right down on the table and told Harvey how he felt, they had fallen into bed together, for what had seemed to Mike at the time like the best night of his life, and the precursor to many more like it. The next morning, Harvey had broken the news that the partnership of _Pearson Specter Litt_ had voted to dissolve itself, and it was every man and woman for his or herself. Harvey had retained counsel in the person of Dana Scott, who had advised him to sever all ties to and communication with Mike.

Gob smacked was too mild a word for how Mike felt at this news. His gob had not simply been smacked, it had been annihilated, blown to smithereens. “That’s good,” he'd managed to say, desperate to retain an iota of dignity. “Because I’ve decided to confess. I’m taking all the blame. I can’t stand to watch the damage our lie continues to spread. I’ve ruined all your lives, in one way or another. The partnership is the latest casualty. So I guess,” he said, as his throat closed up. “I guess last night was goodbye.”

He fled before Harvey could rebut, or object, and that was the last they'd seen of one another, except from a distance in the courthouse.

Until now.

“I’m here,” said Harvey, “because yesterday afternoon this document was messengered to my attorney.”

He started to hand Mike an envelope, but one of the CO’s appeared, and Harvey passed it to him instead. Once the CO had determined that it contained no contraband, he nodded and let Mike have it. Inside was a signed and notarized letter from the U.S. Attorney’s office, stating that the investigation into all former partners and employees of _Pearson Specter Litt_ had turned up no evidence of wrongdoing, beyond the actions of Michael James Ross, and would be terminated forthwith.

“Wow,” Mike marveled, “they work fast.”

“You knew about this?”

Mike nodded, finding it difficult to meet Harvey’s eyes.

“Mike, what the hell did you do?”

He considered possible responses, and finally settled on, “I’m not at liberty to say.”

The flat of Harvey’s palm hit the table so hard that Mike jumped and the CO gave them a warning eyebrow lift.

“Bullshit,” Harvey bit out. “This stinks of a deal, but you are sorely lacking in bargaining chips these days. What did you agree to?”

Finally, Mike allowed himself to look straight at Harvey, noting the new stress lines near his eyes, and his pallid complexion. Still, he was the best thing Mike had seen for weeks. “I’m sorry, Harvey. I honestly can’t tell you. Maybe someday I’ll be able to explain it all to you, but right now, I’m asking you to trust me. Go away. Go back to Scottie. Live your life and be happy. Don’t come back here. And don’t go poking around in things that don’t concern you. Please?”

Harvey stared at him, cheek muscles twitching and dark eyes serious and sorrowful. He heaved a weary sigh. “I don’t like this, but all right. I’ll trust you, but only if you promise me one thing.”

“Name it.”

“Stay alive.”

Mike laughed sharply. “That’s the plan.”

“And when you get out, come find me.”

“That’s two things.”

“Mike …”

“I promise.” He wasn’t sure if he meant it, but he needed to put distance between himself and Harvey before he said anything stupid.

Harvey’s mouth worked for a couple of seconds, as if he had a great deal more to say, but he got up and walked out of the room without another word.

***

By the end of the third day, Mike was running out of places to hide, and reasons to hover close to Fergus, the one guard he knew for a fact would keep him (relatively) safe from harm. Luckily, Da’Mico was back in their cell when Mike returned from dinner with a matching bruise under his other eye, the result of a well-aimed elbow in the food line.

He froze at the sight of Da’Mico stretched out on the top bunk, his arms crossed behind his head. Mike's face kept wanting to break into a grin, but he forced his expression to remain impassive. "Hey," was all he said as the door locked behind him.

"Hey." Da’Mico sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bunk, and leaned over to peer down at Mike. He frowned and dropped lightly to the floor. Two steps brought him to Mike, and he reached up to feather his fingers across Mike's cheekbone and his most recent bruise. "Who did this?"

"That side? I think his name was Goblin. He looked like one, anyway. The other side was courtesy of Papa Jackal himself." He shifted nervously. Da’Mico stood close to him, and his dark gaze travelled searchingly up and down Mike's body. "What about you? Are you okay?" Mike asked.

"I'm fine. I want to hear more about you." He touched Mike's face again. "Is this the extent of it, or is there more damage I can't see?"

"That's it. There were a few near misses but … "

"Well, Daddy's home, and this shit stops now."

The wave of relief and gratitude that swept through Mike nearly swamped him. A corner of his mouth turned down as he fought to contain his emotions. "Not going to lie to you: for once I'm actually happy to see your stupid face."

"Good. Damn, kid, just looking at you, I can tell you haven't been sleeping."

"Worry will do that."

Da’Mico took a half step closer, backing Mike up against the wall. "Worry for me? That's sweet."

Mike began to hyperventilate. "Partly you. But mostly worry for my poor virgin ass." He blushed as he realized what he'd just admitted.

"Virgin, huh? We can change that any time you want." He touched the spot on Mike's neck where his mark had nearly faded to nothing. "Shit. I almost wish you hadn't told me. The things I could do to you ..."

Mike's eyes drifted shut. During his three days on his own, he'd thought about taking Da’Mico up on his offer, and succumbing to this outrageously inappropriate temptation. Then Harvey had shown up, muddying his libidinal waters. Would Harvey even want to look at him if he found out what Mike had done to earn his release? Would he care, now that Scottie was back in the picture?

Not that fucking around with Da’Mico was a requirement. It might help their act, or so he had rationalized to himself. He didn't doubt for a second that it would feel fantastic, and might improve his overall mental stability, which had become seriously frayed over the last few days.

Da’Mico moved away finally, and Mike leaned against the wall for support.

"Let's talk about tomorrow," said Da’Mico, sitting on Mike's bunk and patting the spot next to him. "Over here, away from the door."

Mike hesitated half a second, and then joined him, leaving a couple of inches between their thighs. "Are you going to talk to Lucifer?" He managed to ask the question with a straight face.

Lucifer was the leader of the Vice Cobras. Other members called themselves such things as Morpheus, and Gorgon, and Wendigo, just to name a few.

At this morning's breakfast, Mike had managed to insinuate himself into a group of misfits near the Cobras' table, had eavesdropped, and had come to the conclusion that Lucifer fancied himself some sort of criminal mastermind. He only hoped that Lucifer and his band of merry men weren't smart enough to see through Mike and Da’Mico's charade.

"I doubt it will be that simple," replied Da’Mico. "I'll approach one of his subordinates and request a meeting, which will most likely be refused. Then we wait."

"Wait for what?"

"A test."

"Such as?"

Da’Mico shrugged carelessly. "It will be something physical. Like jumping me in the shower, or using some pretext to lure me away from the guards."

Mike bent forward, rubbing his forehead. "Great. You'll end up back in solitary, and I'm toast."

"That's not going to happen."

"No? How do you know?"

"I had a talk with Buddy, who came to see me in solitary."

"Buddy?"

"The guard with slicked back, blond hair. He's my handler."

"Nice of you to tell me," said Mike, voice dripping with sarcasm, which Da’Mico ignored.

"Well, now you know. I don't want you to worry about anything but playing your part, and keeping your eyes and ears open. Think you can do that?"

"If playing my part calls for flinching and cowering, I think I've got it covered."

Da’Mico clasped Mike's shoulder. "Don't sell yourself short. You handled yourself pretty well the first time we met."

Mike raised one shoulder in a modest half-shrug. "I've been thrown against the wall plenty of times before -- and since."

Da’Mico tipped his head back and let out a nearly silent laugh. "I'm sorry to hear that, kid. Maybe when you get out of here, you'll start making better life choices, and avoid all the manhandling."

"Heh. Manhandling. It sounds so dirty when you say it."

Mike could see Da’Micos tongue poke against the inside of his cheek as he gave Mike a long look, head to one side. "Anyone ever tell you you've got a smart mouth?"

"Shockingly often, actually."

"Mike." He looked away, shaking his head as if changing his mind about whatever he'd been about to say.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Come on. Tell me. What else is there to do in here but talk?"

Da’Mico laughed. "You sure you want an answer to that? Yeah? Okay." He rested one hand against Mike's throat and bore him down onto his back, meeting zero resistance. "What I'd really like to do right now,” he growled softly, “is fuck the hell out of that smart mouth of yours." His hand tightened, and his mouth hovered just above Mike's, almost close enough to brush against him. "Is that the kind of talk you wanted?"

Mike groaned and licked his lips, and got a quick taste of Da’Mico as well. "If we do this," he whispered, heart pounding, "it means nothing. It's just a couple of guys scratching an itch."

"Copy that, college boy."

His mouth traveled the last quarter inch to Mike's. They kissed noisily, and rubbed against one another, growing more and more frantic. Da’Mico reached for the top button on Mike's jumpsuit, just before the lights dimmed briefly. He let out a frustrated sound that was half laugh and half moan. "To be continued." And then he lifted up and climbed into the upper bunk.

***

Mike's nerves were jumping as he waited for bed check and lights out. It seemed to take the guards forever to make their way down the block. A shouting match broke out several doors down, with other prisoners joining in sporadically. The guards got things calmed down and finished their rounds. The main door at the end of the hall slammed shut and seconds later darkness fell.

By then, Mike had cooled down, and had time to consider the wisdom of the path on which they were about to embark. The rational part of his brain insisted that they should stay in their own lanes. The other part, the frustrated guy who hadn’t had anyone’s hands on his dick but his own for two months, had other things to say.  

"I don’t hear you getting naked," Da’Mico commented softly.

What did it matter anyway? Harvey didn’t want him, but what difference would it make if he did? Mike would be poison to Harvey if he wanted, as Mike assumed he would, to re-boot his legal career and bounce back from the scandal. And Mike had to look out for himself now. He was likely in here for six more months, and fate had sent him a guardian angel to keep him safe. No payment required, but this didn’t feel like payment. It felt like lemonade from lemons, like a port in a storm. Like surcease, and temporary escape from all of the dark thoughts and fears tormenting him.

He was doing this.

Mike's hands shook as he unbuttoned and shimmied out of the ugly orange jumpsuit. His socks and underwear joined it underneath his mattress. Above him, the sound of rustling cloth told him that Da’Mico was engaged in the same actions.

Silence fell for several minutes, as Mike's nerves stretched tighter and tighter. Unable to stand it any longer, he whispered, "So? Your place or mine?"

Da’Mico gave an amused grunt. "Hang on. I'm coming down."

When his warm, naked body pressed against Mike's, they wasted no more time, and picked up where they'd left off, kissing and grabbing and touching. Da’Mico sucked several marks onto Mike's neck while Mike held tightly to his muscular buttocks, grinding against him. Lifting his head, and breathing every bit as hard as Mike, Da’Mico murmured, "Mm. Nice. Points for enthusiasm. So tell me, what's the extent of your experience with a man?"

Mike shivered. This was almost exactly, word for word, what Harvey had asked him on that one night they'd had. Then, the answer had been precisely zero. Now, however …

"Not much. Just this, and hand jobs, and I, uh, sucked his cock."

"You liked that? Sucking cock?"

Understatement. "Copy that."

"Ha. Okay, show me what you got."

He rolled off of Mike, and they rearranged themselves with Da’Mico leaning against the wall at the head of the bed, and Mike kneeling between his spread legs. He held Da’Mico's already hard cock in one hand and wrestled down his remaining misgivings.

“You okay, kid?” asked Da’Mico after Mike had been motionless for too long.

Mike gave his head a rough nod. “Yeah,” he muttered, and then more strongly, “yeah. For a second there, I felt like I was having an out of body experience.”

Da’Mico scratched his hairy stomach and nudged Mike’s foot with his own. “That usually comes a little later in the proceedings, if we’re doing it right. What’s going on? You having second thoughts?”

Was he? He’d already had them, and dismissed them, so he answered Da’Mico’s question by lowering his mouth over the head of his cock and suckling. Keeping his mouth in place, he sat back on his heels and palmed Da’Mico’s large, hairy balls, rolling and kneading them gently. With shallow head bobs and generous tongue action, he got Da’Mico’s cock good and wet. A quick lift of his gaze showed him the other man with his head thrown back, eyes half-closed, and his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

Even while despising himself for making the comparison, Mike noted that Da’Mico’s cock was a couple inches shorter than Harvey’s, but with greater girth. Having had one night of practice and instruction, Mike confidently swallowed Da’Mico to the root, and set up a steady rhythm, head moving up and down while his tongue teased every inch of him. He thrust one hand between his legs and rubbed against Da’Mico’s puckered entrance, coaxing a prolonged moan out of him.

Two strong hands came to rest on Mike’s head, and he liked the feel of that, letting out a moan of his own around Da’Mico’s cock. The hands tightened, and Da’Mico thrust up roughly, again and again. Mike grabbed the other man’s thighs and held on, experimenting with angles until he found the best one, and allowed Da’Mico to indulge his urge to fuck his face.

“Getting close,” the marshal warned.

“Mmph,” said Mike. He groaned in disappointment when Da’Mico pulled out of his mouth, but didn’t put up a fight when he found himself shoved onto his back with Da’Mico practically sitting on his chest, knees bracketing his head.

Mike watched, dazed and more than a little fascinated, as Da’Mico jerked himself off with raw enthusiasm, letting out a string of guttural curses and grunts. “Close your eyes, pretty,” he rasped.

Mike did, and an instant later felt hot cum spatter his face and neck and the edges of his hair. He opened his mouth and licked up whatever he could reach. Then Da’Mico turned slightly, reached behind himself, palmed Mike’s cock, and jerked him off too, all the while watching his face intently. Mike was close, and it took only half a dozen rough pulls before his orgasm ripped through him. Da’Mico's free hand descended swiftly to shut off Mike's shout.

As he slowly came down, Mike realized he still had a death grip on Da’Mico’s thighs, and forced himself to let go.

“Good,” Da’Mico panted as he flopped next to Mike, straightened his legs, and buried his face in the place where Mike's neck and shoulder met. “Mm. That was real good kid.”

Mike silently agreed with his assessment. The narrow bunk had them pressed closely together, and Mike thought about delicately suggesting that Da’Mico return to his own bunk, but the truth was, it felt good, this skin to skin contact. He wiped his face with a corner of the blanket, shut his eyes and let his hands roam lazily over the round ass, and smooth back, and broad shoulders, but when he reached higher and encountered the bald head, he froze, pulled sharply back to reality. This was not Harvey in his bed, and no amount of dedicated fantasizing would make it so.

He shifted restlessly, and Da’Mico's head came up. "We shouldn't be seen together when the guards make their rounds." Was that regret Mike heard in his voice?

"I know."

Da’Mico planted a quick kiss on Mike's shoulder, disentangled himself, stood, and hoisted himself into the upper bunk. "Sweet dreams, kitten."

Mike gave a snort of laughter. "No. Just no. I know I need a nickname, but that simply will not do."

"Yeah, I guess not. You are woefully short of claws. What do you want to be called?"

Mike thought about it, even as he was having difficulty keeping his eyes open. "I don't think it works that way. We don't pick the nickname, the nickname picks us."

Mike yawned and buried his face in his pillow. If Da’Mico said anything more on the subject, he didn't hear it.

***

During the next week, life fell into a routine of sorts. Breakfast. Laundry room. Lunch. "Free" time in the outside yard, or inside common room. Once a week, a visit to the prison library was permitted. Dinner. Back to the cell for reading or rambling conversations, until the lights went out. In this interlude, visits to other cells were allowed, but for now they kept to themselves.

After bed check, Da’Mico was down in Mike's bunk in an instant. They explored every inch of each other's bodies, learned one another thoroughly, where to touch, where to lick, where to blow softly, what made the other sigh with pleasure, or whine with need. Generally it was Da’Mico who reduced Mike to a trembling, babbling mess, before clambering back into his bunk, leaving Mike to deal with the newest wet spot on the bed.

Three nights following Da’Mico's return from solitary, he produced a stash of condoms and lube, and left Mike to wonder how he had gotten his hands on them. He didn't wonder for long. He didn't think coherently for long, once Da’Mico had him on his knees, two lubed fingers working deep inside him.

Ever since Mike had admitted his feelings for Harvey to himself years ago, he had imagined this moment. In his fantasies, it had always been Harvey exploring Mike's uncharted territory. In his more frustrated moments, he had considered approaching Rachel with his needs, or rolling the dice with a complete stranger.

Now, even as he stifled his cries of joy and surprise with a corner of blanket stuffed in his mouth, and moved his hips in tight circles, somewhere inside of him a tiny sliver of melancholy grieved silently for all of the lost opportunities.

Soon enough, all doubts and misgivings were swallowed up by sensation . Da’Mico, moving with exquisite patience and care, pressed the head of his cock into Mike's tight entrance. Mike made a noise deep in his chest which was only partly distress. Da’Mico paused, stroking tenderly down the center of Mike's back, and moving his other hand underneath Mike to his cock, his touch light and teasing.

"Doing okay, pretty?" he murmured in Mike's ear.

Mike might have commented on the nickname, but he was too occupied with other things to frame an objection. "I'm … god … fuck … okay … "

Breath tickled the back of his neck as Da’Mico chuckled. "I'm going to start moving. Stop me if you need to." He pushed forward, slowly, slowly filling Mike up, until his groin pressed against Mike's bottom. He rested, letting Mike adjust, and then began thrusting shallowly, forward and back. "Relax, sweetheart. Let me in."

Mike shivered and thrust back to meet him, and suddenly what had been impossible fullness and burning pain transformed in an instant to insane want and the craving for more. Much more.

"Faster," he whispered over his shoulder. "Harder. God. _Harder._ "

Da’Mico obliged immediately. He set up a rhythmic pounding that had Mike bracing his hands against the wall to keep from being mashed against it. It didn't take long for him to catch the rhythm, and he thrust back as Da’Mico surged forward. He grabbed his dick and jerked off wildly. He was perhaps halfway up the path to orgasm when Da’Mico altered his angle of attack, hitting Mike's prostate. His vision whited out, and he only remembered at the last instant to bite down on the blanket.

As D'Amcio continued his assault, he snatched the blanket from between Mike's teeth. "Let them hear you," he ground out, "because they are sure as hell going to hear me."

Mike howled as he came, and his ass clenched and spasmed around Da’Mico’s cock. He slammed into Mike a few more times and then froze, muscled arms holding Mike like a vice while he shouted wordlessly.

A few approving hoots echoed back at them, as well as scattered applause. Pinned to the bed by Da’Mico, Mike found himself blushing. Any lingering ambiguities about the nature of their relationship would have vanished completely following that performance.

"If you're not walking funny tomorrow," Da’Mico murmured hotly in his ear, "I'm not doing my job."

"That was a solid four and a half stars out of five."

Da’Mico made an affronted sound. "Four and a half?"

"Wouldn't want you to get complacent."

Pushing up with his arms, Da’Mico lifted off of Mike, and gave him a series of stinging slaps on his ass. "I rocked your fucking world. Admit it. Brat."

"Rock it again tonight after rounds, and I'll consider upping you to a five."

"Oh, it is on." He climbed into his bunk, and Mike found a weird measure of satisfaction in noting that he seemed to move a little slower, and with less grace than normal.

***

The next afternoon, Mike sat next to Da’Mico on one of the outside benches, soaking up the late winter sunshine. Suddenly, the other man stirred beside him and stood up. "Wait here. Looks like this might be it."

Mike hadn't seen whatever it was that had alerted Da’Mico, and watched him walk off to one of the far corners of the yard with growing trepidation. When Da’Mico was joined by two of the Vice Cobras, and they all disappeared from sight around a corner of the building, Mike's anxiety spiked.

He spotted movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning his head, he saw Goblin, Papa Jackal, and two other Midnight Rebels whose names he did not know, advancing on him, matching evil grins plastered across their faces. "Muscles," Da’Mico's confidential informant, was nowhere to be seen. Neither was his handler, Buddy the guard.

Mike's first instinct was to get up and run after Da’Mico, but he knew that his interference in whatever "test" was being administered would not be well received. He stood slowly, and found himself surrounded.

"Hey, guys," he said in what he hoped was a non-threatening tone of voice. "What can I do for you?"

Goblin pushed at his shoulder, sending him stumbling back against Papa Jackal. "You can explain what you're doing sitting on our bench."

"Um." Unpleasant memories of his middle school cafeteria assailed Mike, and he almost laughed out loud. "I'm sorry. I had no idea."

"I'm afraid," said Papa Jackal, snaking an arm around Mike's waist, "that sorry just isn't good enough. You owe me rent for utilizing my bench. So tell me, how would you like to pay for that?"

_Euros? Rupees? Yen?_ _Visa? MasterCard?_ Mike struggled to escape, while wondering if he could possibly outrun all four of them. The question was academic, since he failed to free himself.

Papa Jackal's hot breath warmed the back of his neck as he murmured, "Let's all go back to my cell, and we can discuss your options."

Mike dug in his heels as the two unnamed Rebels grabbed his arms and tried to drag him. Mike scanned the yard frantically, looking for a friendly guard. The only guards he spotted were gazing off in different directions. He threw a wild elbow and heard the satisfying grunt that told him he'd hit his target. For his reward, he received a hard punch somewhere in the vicinity of his right kidney and he dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around himself in attempt to protect against the kicks being aimed his way. One foot glanced against his head and he fell the rest of the way to the ground, now covering his vulnerable head with one arm.

Then, just like that, the attack halted. Cautiously, he lifted one elbow to see what was going on. A wall of Vice Cobras circled the Rebels, and he didn't know whether to be grateful or terrified.

Gorgon, who he recognized from both his sheer bulk and his gravelly voice, said, "You want to destroy the truce for this little nothing?"

"He ain't affiliated," snarled Goblin, kicking Mike's ankle without force.

"He just go affiliated."

At the sound of Da’Mico's voice, Mike uncovered his head and sat up. The marshal's collar was torn, a trickle of blood was drying on his chin, and a bruise was blossoming on his cheek. He grinned reassuringly down at Mike.

Papa Jackal directed a scowl at Da’Mico. "Hercules scared you that bad, huh?"

" _Hercules?_ " Mike squeaked, before he could stop himself. This must be Brian, the confidential informant. "Isn't that just a little bit on the nose?"

Cobras, Rebels and Da’Mico all ignored him.

"If you think he won that fight," said Gorgon, grinning, "you're fucking blind. And if you touch his boy again, Lucifer ain't going to like it."

For a few tense seconds, the Rebels held their ground. Then, with obvious reluctance, they moved away, sending poisonous glances back over their shoulders. When they were gone, Da’Mico offered Mike a hand. He took it, and was hauled to his feet.

_Now what?_ he wanted to ask, but was saved the effort when Gorgon announced, "Now we go see Lucifer."

***

Stepping inside of Lucifer's cell, Mike could clearly see the perks of consolidating power and favors on the inside. The standard bunk had been replaced with a regular bed with thick mattress, nice sheets and comforter. Colorful, plush rugs covered every inch of the concrete floor, three lamps lit the space warmly, and the greatest miracle of all was an actual quality toilet with a folding privacy screen standing next to it. A flat screen television hung from one wall. Books and magazines were stacked neatly on an oak bookcase, and there was even a small desk with a laptop computer plugged in and running.

Mike's mouth hung open as he took it all in. Lucifer himself, an elegant skeleton of a man, was seated at the desk, tapping away at the computer's keyboard. When Mike and Da’Mico entered, he closed the lid, stood, and beckoned them further inside. Gorgon took the bed, lying on his back and paging through a copy of _Newsweek,_ and Morpheus leaned on the closed door, arms folded across his chest. Two armchairs were crowded into the corner. Lucifer took one, and at his gesture, Da’Mico sat in the other and then snapped his fingers and pointed at the floor near his feet.

Mike knew what was expected of him, but still hesitated a beat before kneeling next to Da’Mico and resting his head on his leg.

"So," began Lucifer, "what's this I hear about you wanting to join our little group?" His hair shone like old gold, and his eyes were a muddy shade of hazel.

Da’Mico lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. "Yeah. You heard right."

"What are you in for?"

"Armed robbery. Third strike. Twenty year minimum."

"And him?" Lucifer's gaze flickered to Mike and away again.

Da’Mico's hand settled on Mike's head, and his fingers dug gently into his scalp, massaging. "Fraud."

"Fraud? Please elaborate."

Mike opened his mouth to speak, but Da’Mico's fingers tightened in warning, and he answered for him. "Practicing law without a license."

Lucifer's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "And they sent him here? That seems harsh. Must have pissed somebody off. How long?"

"Four years." Da’Mico grinned wolfishly. "Damn, but I'm gonna miss him when he's gone."

"Undoubtedly." Lucifer's long fingers drummed the arm of his chair. "I'll take you on, trial basis only. Lowest rank to begin with, but we have plenty of room for advancement if I like what I see. You'll need a name." He narrowed his eyes, regarding Da’Mico seriously. "From now on, we’re going to call you ‘Reaper’."

Mike thought it was ridiculous, but Da’Mico nodded, signaling his approval.

"And what about your little toy here?" More finger drumming, as Lucifer considered Mike. "Imp," he decreed.

Mike's opinion was not asked. He shut his eyes and huddled closer to Da’Mico (Reaper), letting the rest of the conversation wash over him. It was mostly about what would be expected of their newest member. If anything was expected of Mike, nothing was mentioned. Not then.

***

Life continued. Sometimes Da’Mico was called away and sent on errands, sometimes with other Vice Cobras, sometimes on his own. If Mike was left alone for a significant length of time, one or two silent shadows would appear, watching over him and keeping away Papa Jackal and his crew, who always lurked nearby.

In time, both Da’Mico and Mike began to be invited on a regular basis to hang out with the other Cobras in Lucifer’s cell. Drugs and alcohol were plentiful, and pets were shared indiscriminately among the more powerful members. Mike had never liked the name “Imp,” but after he’d met “Slut,” and “Hole,” and “Dog,” he decided he’d gotten off easy in the nickname department.

It both saddened and frightened him to see how apt their names turned out to be. Da’Mico had managed so far to keep Mike to himself, and if that meant servicing him in front of the rest of the Cobras, Mike did what he had to do. And if he found himself a little too turned on by the presence of an audience, he kept that personal revelation to himself.

After perhaps a month, it began to seem to Mike as if they had pushed their luck nearly as far as it would go. Sooner or later, Lucifer would demand he join the other pets in the next clubhouse orgy. If he wished to avoid that, he needed to do something to speed things up.

The opportunity came sooner than he could have hoped. He and Da’Mico were back in Lucifer's cell. The evening’s festivities had not yet begun. As had become his habit, Mike brought his latest novel with him, and no one paid him any attention as he pretended to read while business was discussed, assignments handed out, and prison gossip exchanged.

Lucifer, as Mike had noted on several other occasions, referred frequently to a small book, about the size of a checkbook. He made notations into it, and seemed to never let it out of his sight. When he was finished with it, he tucked it in a desk drawer, which he normally locked. Mike had been dying to get his hands on that book for weeks.

On this day, Lucifer put the book away, but had not yet locked the drawer, when a noisy disturbance broke out in the hallway. As if with one mind, the Cobras moved to the doorway to see what was happening.

If Mike had taken even a second to think over what he was about to do, he probably would have missed his chance, frozen and indecisive with fear. He didn't think, though, just got up, slipped silently over to the desk, grabbed the book, and was back sitting down, Lucifer's notebook resting within his borrowed copy of _Crime and Punishment_ , before the little drama outside finished playing out, and everyone returned to their former places.

With his heart in hyper drive and his neck and palms sweating bullets, Mike proceeded to memorize every page in the book. Tempting as it was to flip rapidly through, he kept up the charade of actually reading, and turned to the next page only when he was certain no one was watching him. Despite his hunch that the book was important, and likely their key to breaking up the drug ring, he was disheartened to find only odd symbols and cryptic numbers scrawled inside of it. Still, he dutifully committed everything to memory. Maybe some genius cryptographer at the DEA or U.S. Attorney's office could figure it out.

Meanwhile, a bottle of some sort of alcohol had appeared, and the Cobras were toasting one another, growing louder and more raucous and crude as time passed. Crotches were grabbed, Hole was installed on the bed, and Dog on his usual place on the floor. Slut, for some reason was missing that day, and speculation soon began about Mike, and what his particular skills might be. This had happened before, and each time it did, Da’Mico either called Mike over to him, or made some excuse to get them out of there before things got out of hand. He had a “panic button” in his pocket which would summon his handler to intervene, but this could only be used one time, and in case of dire emergency.

Da’Mico nudged Mike with his foot. Mike looked up at him, eyes wide, trying to communicate his dilemma. He had just finished memorizing Lucifer's book, and now needed to return it to the drawer without anyone becoming aware that he had it.

Mike's intense look upwards was met by any equally intense glare from Da’Mico, clearly stating, _we need to get the fuck out of here._ Praying he was not being too obvious, Mike made subtle but frantic head motions towards his book. Finally getting the message, Da’Mico leaned over to see what Mike had behind the book, and nearly choked when he realized what it was.

Nothing more needed to be said. Both of them knew that another distraction was needed so that Mike could slip the book back into the desk. That was Mike's view on things, anyway. He watched Da’Mico take a deep pull from the bottle of hooch, and then act as if he had just remembered Mike's presence. He shoved Mike roughly with his foot, nearly making him fall over.

"Why are you always reading?" He slurred the question, and punctuated it with another foot shove. "You think you're better than me, college boy?"

Da’Mico crouched down and reached for the book.   As they struggled together for possession of _Crime and Punishment_ , Da’Mico snatched Lucifer's record book with lightning quick speed, and shoved it down the front of his jumpsuit. Then he grabbed the novel and flung it violently across the cell. All eyes watched as it smacked into the wall next to the television, and thudded to the floor.

"Guess he showed you," Wendigo sneered into the thick silence.

"The critics have spoken," sniggered someone else from behind Mike.

"I think," said Lucifer slowly, much like a judge passing sentence, "your boy needs to be taught a lesson. And it's long past time you started sharing."

Mike had suspected this moment might arrive eventually. He'd thought long and hard about what he would do when it did, and had decided that if it came down to it, he'd do what he had to do to save his skin -- and Da’Mico's. So, although he went cold all over, and his stomach clenched with dread, he was mentally prepared to service as many Cobras as the situation called for.

He met Da’Mico's eyes and gave him a resolute nod. Mike would keep the attention on himself, giving the marshal a chance to return Lucifer's book to its proper place. Da’Mico did not appear pleased, but kept his objections to himself.

"Imp," ordered Lucifer, "come here. Let's see you crawl."

Mike crawled across the cell to where Lucifer leaned against the wall.

"Cobras, whoever wants to help initiate this boy into our family, step forward."

Five men stepped forward, forming a semi-circle behind Mike.

Addressing himself to Mike, Lucifer said, "In the future, when I decide that one of my men deserves a reward, you may be called upon to entertain them for an hour, or two, or a night. Today, you're going to serve each of these five men, one after the other, with your mouth. You'll probably want to skip dinner afterwards, because you are going to swallow everything they give you. If you fail to satisfy even one of them, or refuse to swallow, you'll be subject to punishment by me." Casually, he displayed a hunting knife that gleamed under the soft lights.

Without meaning to, Mike let out a frightened gasp.

"I don't think so," said Da’Mico, stepping up next to Mike. "Nobody damages my property without my say so."

"You'd best step back. When you became a Vice Cobra, you knew the rules. Everyone shares. And my word is the law." He laughed. "I'd only hurt him a little. This time. But something tells me he's more than up to the task. Aren't you, boy?"

Mike wasn't so sure, but also knew that this would provide the perfect distraction so that Da’Mico could get rid of the book. So he nodded up at Lucifer and steeled himself for the performance required of him.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Da’Mico move away, ending up next to Lucifer's desk, where he leaned one hip against it and crossed his arms. The first man unbuttoned his jump suit and pulled out his cock. Mike made a show of trembling and cowering away, making sure that every eye was on him. He saw Da’Mico make a quick, darting move towards the desk and away again, which he took to mean that Lucifer’s book had been returned to its proper place.

Mike considered the long, skinny dick hovering just below his nose. The man smelled sour, as if he hadn’t showered for a few weeks. Mike took a deep, shuddering breath and lowered his head.

Then all hell broke loose.

Loud sirens blared in the hallway, red warning lights began to blink, and every other light blinked out, leaving the cell in a weird, redly pulsing darkness, like the center of a slowly beating heart. Like everyone else in Lucifer’s cell, Mike froze. Everyone except Da’Mico, that is. He grabbed Mike by his wrist and hauled him into the hallway a split second before every door on the cell block slammed shut automatically, triggered by whatever emergency was currently in progress.

With the doors shut, that meant they were locked out of their cell. Mike did not know the protocol, but evidently Da’Mico did. He dropped suddenly to his knees and placed his hands on his head. Mike stared at him as if he had lost his mind.

“God damn it, kid,” grated Da’Mico, “assume the fucking position.”

Mike assumed the fucking position, and waited for the guards to arrive.

***

Buddy and Fergus were the first to arrive, which Mike thought was incredibly lucky. It turned out that it wasn’t luck.

They cuffed both Mike and Da’Mico and led them out of the cell block, while the alarm sirens continued to squawk, and the emergency lights throbbed in the gloom. Instead of throwing them in solitary, or sending them to the warden, they installed them in a conference room with a table and four chairs – probably the place where prisoners were allowed to meet with their lawyers, Mike decided.

His adrenaline was still spiking from his close call with the Cobras, and the alarms. “What?” he asked Da’Mico, who remained infuriatingly calm. “What the fuck? That was … What is happening? Is someone escaping? Is it a riot? We didn’t do anything. Why are we in here?”

In front of the two guards, and the ceiling camera, Da’Mico wrapped his arms around Mike and shushed him. “Settle down, pretty. You’re okay. You did great.”

Mike forced himself to breathe more slowly, in and out, trying to reach for calm. “What,” he repeated, speaking slowly and distinctly, “is happening?”

Da’Mico’s body moved in silent laughter. “I hit the panic button. That was some dramatic shit, huh?”

“You - ” Mike pulled away and stared at Da’Mico. “Oh. No wonder you can only use it one time.” Da’Mico nodded. Feeling as if his legs were about to give out, Mike sat carefully in one of the chairs. “And? Now what?”

“Now you write down every single thing you saw in that book, and we pray like hell that it’s enough to implicate the Cobras, because if we have to go back in there, I’m afraid you will be in for a world of hurt, and there won’t be much I can do to protect you.”

***

Buddy got Mike a pad of paper, and he recreated the symbols and numbers from Lucifer’s book.   It took him perhaps an hour. When he was done, Da’Mico and Buddy studied it, both scowling.

“It’s in code,” Mike offered, trying to be helpful.

“No shit,” said Da’Mico distractedly. He and Buddy locked eyes, and then shook their heads in unison.

“Well?” asked Mike, feeling the beginnings of sick panic growing inside his chest. “It has to mean something.”

“Sure, sure,” said Da’Mico. He threw up his hands. “We’ll give it to the cryptographers, see what they come up with.”

“How long will that take?”

“Sorry, Mike. It takes as long as it takes. We have some certifiable geniuses at our disposal, though, if that helps.”

Mike's panic ballooned, making him lightheaded. “What do we do until they break the code? I mean, we can’t go back in there, right?” He looked between Da’Mico and Buddy. “Right? Guys?”

“Kid,” began Da’Mico.

Mike spun away.

Buddy cleared his throat. “There is something we can do. We’ll say you both resisted. You can go into solitary for a month. Anything longer than that might look suspicious.”

“Mike? How’s that sound?”

Mike stared at the wall for long seconds. “Does it matter?” he finally asked. “Does it matter what I think? If this … this _gibberish_ – ” Here, he paused and waved his hand at the writing pad now in the hands of Buddy. “If it doesn’t solve your case for you, I’m back out there with my ass – and my life – on the line for another five months.” He gave an involuntary shudder. “So I hope your geniuses are as good as you think they are.”

***

The segregation unit, or solitary, lay in a separate corner of the prison. As Buddy opened the door to Mike’s cell, he saw a dark room, a six-foot cube with one narrow slit of a window on one wall. A cot, even narrower than the bunk in a regular cell, was the sole piece of furniture.

Buddy directed his attention to a trench in the concrete floor near the outside wall. “That’s where you piss and shit,” he explained, sounding only slightly apologetic. “Once a day we hose it out.”

“Wow,” Mike whispered.

“Meals come twice a day. You get half an hour outside in one of the cages.” Mike had seen these at one side of the yard, and had wondered what purpose they served. They looked like covered kennels, tall enough for a man. They must not let the segregated prisoners out with the regular cons.

“Any questions?” asked Buddy.

“Is a month a long time? I mean, it must be if Da’Mico and Hercules only got three days for fighting.”

Buddy laughed, a harsh ugly sound. “Ron figured that’s all they'd need for you to get a taste of what your next four years would be like if you didn’t continue to play ball.”

Mike felt his stomach drop at this news. So Da’Mico had been playing him from the start? It shouldn’t have felt like such a betrayal, but it did. To cover his turbulent emotions, he blurted out the first question that popped into his head. “So, uh, what’s the record? What’s the longest someone has been in here?”

“One guy down on the end has been in for close to fifteen years. Be sure to stay away from him. He’s not right in the head.”

_No doubt._ He wasn’t sure he’d be right in the head, himself, after a day, much less a month, or fifteen fucking years. Da’Mico had stayed behind while Buddy escorted Mike here. Presumably, he had some marshal duties to take care of. Maybe he got to go spend a night at home, to shower, do some laundry, water his plants. Mike tried not to feel bitter about that. He’d be back soon enough, to keep up the charade while they waited for word from the geniuses.

“If there’s no more questions, I gotta get back. Things tend to get dicey after a lockdown. You may not like it in here, but believe me, it’s the safest place at the moment.”

Mike nodded and stepped away from the door. It slammed shut, the lock engaged loudly, and Mike was alone.

***

Mike had thought he knew what loneliness was, but he quickly came to realize that he hadn’t had a clue. With no one to talk to, nothing to read, and nothing to look at except the bare concrete walls, he fell into a funk that was part depression, part boredom, and part twitchy, nervous anxiety. He paced until the movement felt less soothing and more desperate.

He tried laying on the bed and memorizing the ceiling. Then he closed his eyes and chose things to recall, piece by tiny piece. First he reviewed the answers to all of the LSAT’s he’d taken for other people. He silently recited the dialog to the last ten movies he’d seen. After he’d had his half hour outside in the human kennel, he lay down again and started on the Bainbridge briefs, figuring that would keep him occupied for at least a day.

After dinner (dry chicken patty, instant mashed potatoes and applesauce), the loudspeaker instructed all segregated prisoners to stand by their doors. Then came the promised hose to flush out all the waste from the trench.

The lights went out, and the screaming started. High-pitched howling started from down the hall, and cut off abruptly. Then the man in the cell next to his began pleading, beating his fists against the door. Mike heard the guards arrive, and soon enough quiet returned, and he picked up the Bainbridge briefs where he’d left off.

On day three, he spotted Da’Mico in one of the outdoor cages during their yard time. He caught Mike’s eye, but only gave a short shake of his head, which Mike took to mean that the geniuses had not yet cracked the code.

Day four, he selected a book from his mental library and began to read. At some point, without realizing what he was doing, he started speaking the words out loud. When he came back to himself enough to notice, he snapped his mouth shut. Less than a minute later, the man next door yelled at him so keep going, so he did.

By the end of the fifth day, he was too hoarse to speak, and lapsed into silence, ignoring the pleas from next door.

From that point on, things grew fuzzy. Time seemed to slow and speed up, and then slow again, without warning or pattern. Hours disappeared with Mike staring blankly into space. He spent most of his time lying down, either sleeping or drifting in a daze somewhere between sleep and waking. Sometimes he dreamed that he was back at work, other times that he was trapped in the cell with Lucifer and the Cobras.

He knew he didn’t want to be back out there, in general population, at the mercy of the Cobras, or the Rebels, or both. As the days dragged past, though, he began to seriously wonder if continued time in solitary would be worse

***

Once a day, he had a glimpse of Da’Mico. They never spoke, barely acknowledged one another, and Mike continued to nurse a grudge over the trick the marshal had played over those first three days in solitary. Still, it gave him a weird sense of comfort to see that he was not completely alone. Without those brief glimpses, Mike wasn't sure he could have kept his shit (relatively) together for as long as he did.

He'd lost count of how many days he'd been in there. It may have been a week or two or more. Then one afternoon the guards led him out to the kennel, and there was no Da’Mico. Maybe they'd let him out for another laundry day, Mike mused bitterly. Well, good for him.

After three days of no Da’Mico sightings, paranoia set in. Had they given up on the undercover operation? Had the marshal been reassigned? What about their deal? Were they backing out? Was the signed agreement just another trick the marshal had pulled on him?

He lost what appetite he'd had, and could only manage a few bites at each meal. He slept more hours than he was awake. Dark nightmares plagued him, filled with shifting shadows and sinister whispers.

A day came where he felt completely disconnected, as if he'd smoked up for hours, far beyond his limits. Strange, random thoughts drifted in and out of his mind, nothing he wanted to act upon, but disturbing nonetheless. He wondered what might happen if he slammed his fist into the wall, over and over. He fantasized constructing a dam to divert the daily deluge in the trench, flooding his cell with water and filth. He thought about ripping apart his mattress and throwing it around the room.

Sitting on the cold floor, he leaned his head back against the wall and giggled soundlessly, until he couldn't breathe.

The door to his cell slid open. He stared listlessly at the guard. Buddy.

"Hi, Buddy. Are you my buddy?"

"Get up. Let's go."

_Go? Go where?_ They'd already had their daily romp in the kennel. Hadn't they? When he didn't move right away, Buddy broke protocol and entered the cell, helping him to his feet with a hand under his arm. He led him, not towards the yard, but in the direction of the main section of the prison, and Mike began quietly panicking.

Instead of returning to the cell block, however, Buddy directed him to the front room, outside the main locked door, the place he had entered on his first day. A man in a suit stood waiting for Mike, and he almost didn't recognize him. It was Da’Mico, cleaned up, beard neatly trimmed, aviator glasses hiding his eyes.

Mike tried to remember that he was still mad at him, but oceans of relief drowned the anger, washing it away.

"Ron," he breathed. He might have given in to the need to collapse onto the floor, or into the nearest chair, but release forms were being thrust his way for his signature, and his personal belongings set on the front counter for him to inventory. He was being processed out. He could hardly believe it.

"Go get dressed," said Da’Mico, inclining his head toward a small room with a curtain.

Mike might have laughed at this useless nod to modesty -- he, and Da’Mico, and anyone else who had been in prison for more than a day were long past that -- but he obediently went into the room, pulled the curtain shut, and changed from his filthy orange jumpsuit and back into his street clothes. He'd come in wearing his best suit, and that is how he would be leaving. The suit was badly wrinkled from its weeks in the plastic container which served as storage, but otherwise intact. His expensive watch hung loosely on his wrist. He didn't bother taking the time to adjust the fit. He'd probably just end up selling it anyway.

He stepped back into the main room, and Da’Mico's eyes may have been hidden by the shades, but Mike could still clearly see he was checking him out, assessing this other version of Mike.

"So this is it?" Mike asked in a voice that creaked as if it needed an application of oil. "I'm out for good? It's over? This isn't another trick?" His bitterness slipped out at the end.

Da’Mico must have heard it, but he only gave him an odd, sidewise look before nodding. "Yeah. That's it. Let's get the hell out of here."

***

Da’Mico had driven to the prison in a dark, government issue sedan. Mike got in on the passenger side, the marshal settled himself behind the wheel, and they were on their way in minutes. The entry gate opened to the flash of Da’Mico's ID, and closed again behind them. Mike breathed out slowly.

They drove in silence through the depressing rural landscape, and merged smoothly onto the interstate, heading south. Heading home. To say that Mike felt off-kilter would be a gross understatement. Part of him still believed he was back in prison, back in the tiny cell in solitary, dreaming about leaving. Too soon, he'd wake up, and --

"Hey. Kid. You with me? I asked you a question."

Da’Mico was giving him a funny look, and Mike couldn't blame him. "Sorry," he muttered, continuing to stare out the window. "I didn't hear you."

"I said, check the glove compartment."

Mike opened it, and pulled out a sealed envelope with his name scrawled on the front. "What's this?"

"Bank documents and a debit card. We opened an account for you. Feel free to transfer it somewhere if you want. It's all yours, free and clear."

Mike opened the envelope, and his eyes widened as he caught sight of the opening balance. "That's more than the apartment was worth," he commented.

"I talked the powers that be into putting you on the payroll retroactively. You were paid rookie wages, plus overtime and hazard pay and a success bonus."

Mike did his best not to react, but inside he felt immense relief. With the unexpected add-on, he had enough to live on for over two years. Not in Manhattan, though. He'd have to set his sets lower, but the idea did not bother him. He tucked the envelope into his jacket pocket.

"So," he said, "I suppose I should ask how everything ended up with the Cobras. Since I'm out, I'm assuming the geniuses did their job?"

"Yup. Turns out Lucifer was using elvish script, and one of our geniuses is a Tolkien nerd. I'm a little surprised you didn't figure that out yourself."

Mike frowned, pretending to think hard. "Tolkien … didn't he write _War and Peace_?"

Da’Mico gave a huff of laughter. "Idiot."

"No, that was Dostoyevsky."

"Jesus, you're impossible. Anyway, if you're interested in the details, we were able to intercept two major drug buys on the outside, and half the guys we caught are already confessing their black little hearts out. We've got solid cases on Lucifer and his gang. At least three of the guards are going to have a real bad day tomorrow."

"I guess none of the Cobras will be getting out anytime soon."

"Nope. And they'll be split up. Of course, I wouldn't be surprised if Lucifer started rebuilding as soon as he gets settled in his new cell. And so it goes, right?"

"What's his real name? Can you tell me that?"

"Wendell Gatewater."

"Gatewater? Huh." It hardly sounded like the name of a ruthless criminal mastermind. Mike probably would have changed his name too.

They lapsed into silence. Mike watched fat raindrops splat on the windows and tried to wrap his head around the fact that it was over. He was out. He'd survived a whole … "Hey," he said with a quick glance at Da’Mico, "how long was I in there?"

"In solitary? Three and a half weeks. Total prison time? Sixty-eight days."

It had seemed longer than that, but even after so short a time on the outside, the reality of it had begun to fade, like an hallucinatory dream shredded by morning light. Despite his overall numbness, his body, he noted, was still knotted with deep pockets of tension. That might take a while to undo.

"What are your plans now?" Da’Mico asked.

"Take a shower. Maybe even a nice long bubble bath."

A dense silence fell briefly, as if both of them were considering the possibility of taking that bath together. Neither spoke out loud to suggest it, and the moment passed. Already, as the miles rolled behind them and the city loomed closer, it felt as if they were becoming strangers again.

"What I meant was," Da’Mico finally said, "what are your plans for the future? You given it any thought?"

"Nope."

"Well, here's something to chew over. My bosses were real impressed by what you did with that book. You ever consider a career with the federal government?"

"Very funny. I'll be lucky to get a job flipping burgers. I've got a criminal record."

"Expunged."

Mike's head whipped around and he stared at the side of Da’Mico's face. "What?" He must have heard wrong.

The marshal shrugged. "A little extra thank you for a job well done."

The numbness that had gripped Mike since exiting solitary melted away in an instant. His throat closed up and tears of reaction pricked at his eyes. "Shit," he muttered, turning to stare out the window with his fist pressed against his mouth.

"Anyway," said Da’Mico, as if he hadn't just obliterated the dark cloud hanging over Mike's future with that one magical word, "it's an option, if you want to go that way. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't."

Mike nodded, sniffed, and discreetly wiped away the tears that had escaped to dampen his cheeks. When he felt capable of speech, he cleared his throat and said, "I think I'll stay away from crime and criminals for a while. Beyond that, I have no idea what I'll do with my life."

"Yeah, I wouldn't jump into anything right away either, if I were you." He merged into the exit lane. "You need to sign a couple of things downtown, and then I'll drop you off wherever you want to go."

Neither of them commented on the fact that they'd likely never see one another again. They'd scratched their itch together, made time pass a little more pleasantly, and that was all. It was a lonely feeling, though, to know he was leaving yet another person behind.

***

The hotel Mike chose in Brooklyn was clean, which was about the only positive thing he could say about it -- except for the bathtub, which was surprisingly large. He didn't have an actual bubble bath, but foamed the water up with an entire tiny bottle of hotel shampoo and called it good. By the time he got out and dried himself off, his skin had begun to prune up nicely, and he felt cleaner than he had in sixty-eight days.

Dinner consisted of pizza and beer. He drank more of the beer than he should have, but without it, he doubted he would have managed much sleep.

Most of the next day was filled with mundane tasks: buying new clothes, and a new phone, and a laptop (not as nice as the one he'd finagled from Benjamin, but not bad). Once he'd ticked off all of the items on his to-do list, he spent the rest of the day zoned out in front of the television.

As he lay in bed that night, trying to fall asleep, he finally allowed himself to think about Harvey. He wondered how he was getting along. Had he finally made a commitment to Scottie? Growing curious, Mike reached for his laptop and did a search for him, but didn't find anything about a new law firm. He should forget about him, he told himself. They'd had that one night to satisfy the curiosity both of them had lived with all of those years. There was no reason to revisit all of the awkwardness and yearning that could be traced back to that night.

He had made a promise to Harvey, though. A two-part promise. He'd fulfilled the first part, and sat here still breathing, heart still beating away.

_"Come find me,"_ Harvey had said, and Mike had agreed.

The next day, Mike returned to Manhattan.

***

The doorman at Harvey's building recognized him, and he got inside without difficulty. As he rode the elevator up, it occurred to him that Harvey might not be home at this time of day. It was just past noon. When he rang the doorbell, he waited almost a full minute before it opened a crack, revealing Harvey, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. The look of surprise on his face was almost comical. Almost. His expression immediately shuttered. He looked Mike up and down.

"So. Looks like I was right about that deal." He didn't open the door any wider, didn't usher Mike inside with smiles and hugs. "How long have you been out?"

Mike swallowed past the sudden lump of grief in his throat. "A couple of days." Seemingly beyond his conscious control, his gaze traveled slowly down Harvey's length, taking note of his messy hair, unfastened jeans, and pale, architecturally perfect bare feet. The door remained cracked only the merest of slivers.

Then it clicked. Harvey wasn't alone.

Mike began speaking to cover his embarrassment. "I've been staying in a hotel. Just for now. Until I find a place. And a job, of course. Anyway, you said I should come see you when I get out. I've seen you. I've been seen. So … " He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "I should probably take off. I have a resume to fabricate. A life to rebuild. A future to plan."

He began backing up slowly, preparing to slink away.

"Mike."

One word, spoken softly, reverberating with undertones of exasperation and exhaustion. Mike halted mid-slink.

"Come inside for a while."

Mike's stomach clenched at the thought of coming face to face with Scottie, probably wearing one of Harvey's shirts, smirking at him with victorious malice. "I don't want to interrupt anything."

Harvey opened the door wider and spread his hands to his sides, as if presenting himself for inspection. "Does it look like you're interrupting anything?"

Mike hesitated. "Some towel-clad person's not going to come waltzing out of the bedroom?"

"No. Not until the rohypnol wears off," Harvey deadpanned.

"Oh. Okay. Joking. Nice."

When Mike still did not make a move toward the door, Harvey swung it wide open and made a grand, sweeping gesture with one arm.

Never one to ignore a grand, sweeping gesture, Mike went inside.

***

"No shit?" said Harvey, after Mike had related the tale of how he'd managed to cut three years and ten months off of his sentence. He'd left a few things outs, mostly in regards to his relationship with Da’Mico. He'd probably file that under _what happens in prison_ … "Completely expunged?"

"And they offered me a job. Not that I would even consider it."

"Why not?"

"Honestly?" Mike took a drink of beer, licking the taste from his lips. "Harvey, words cannot begin to adequately describe how terrified I was, every second of every day that I was in there. A job with them might not ever place me in that position again, but I'm not willing to take that chance. I think I'm ready for something low stress, at least for a while."

"Yeah." Harvey nodded thoughtfully. "I get that."

"What about everyone else? How are they doing?" A familiar wave of guilt accompanied the question. By now, he figured he'd never get over all of the damage he'd done to the lives of the people he cared about.

"Jessica and Jeff have started their own firm. She says they intend to keep it small and exclusive. We'll see how long that lasts."

"Pearson and Malone?"

"Malone and Pearson."

Mike lifted one eyebrow at that. "Someone finally tamed Jessica Pearson?"

Harvey laughed. "Not exactly. They flipped a coin."

"What about Louis?"

"He's in Argentina with Sheila."

"Wow. Permanently?"

Harvey grabbed their empty beer bottles and carried them into the kitchen. "I haven't talked to him for a couple of months, but I'll bet we haven't seen the last of him." He returned to the living room with two more bottles, handing one off to Mike before sitting back down. "And let's see … Donna has decided to pursue acting full time. She's currently appearing off off Broadway in a musical based on the Hindenburg disaster."

"Good times."

"Gretchen took a job with Judge Balter. Jack Soloff rounded up maybe sixty percent of the former partners of Pearson Specter Litt and started his own firm."

"He finally gets to be managing partner. Good for him."

"I've heard they're not doing so well, but it's early days." Harvey eyed Mike shrewdly across the coffee table. "And Rachel, I hear, has moved back in with her parents while she finishes up law school."

Mike dropped his gaze to the floor. Of all the regrets he had, what he'd done to Rachel ranked close to the top. If only he'd had the courage to admit his feelings for Harvey to himself right from the beginning of everything, all of the eventual messiness could have been avoided.

"And that," finished Harvey, "covers everyone."

"Not quite. What about you? What has you sitting around on a Monday afternoon doing nothing? Taking time off to find yourself?"

Harvey gave him a funny look. "It's Sunday, Mike."

Mike frowned as he did the math in his head. His face cleared. "Oh, yeah. You're right. Well, tell me then: what are your grand plans for the future? Will Specter Law finally become a reality?"

"Nope." That was it. No explanation. No hint of regret.

A nervous laughed worked its way out of Mike's throat. "Nope? I thought that was the dream. The ultimate goal. You're just giving it all up?"

Harvey looked away, jaw working and lips tight together. Finally, he returned his dark, sorrowful gaze to Mike. "I'm not a lawyer anymore."

Shock seemed to freeze Mike's vocal cords momentarily. Then, "What?" he barely managed to get out. As the seconds ticked past with no response, a suspicion grew in his mind. "You made a deal too."

Harvey heaved a long, weary sigh. "Gibbs wanted to put you away for sixty-six years. No parole possible until half of that was served. I offered her what she really wanted: me gone from the law. In return, your sentenced was reduced to one count of fraud only."

Mike could not believe it. He surged to his feet, hands clenched into fists, as if ready to fight. "But I gave myself up to save you – and everybody else she was going after. That … that is _bullshit._ You were supposed to get out of this. You were supposed to be okay. _"_

"And Anita Gibbs excels at bullshit. Calm down. I'm fine with it Mike. I am okay. More than okay. I would have sacrificed more than that to help you. I'm the one that got you into the whole mess, after all."

Mike waved his hands, rejecting Harvey's call for calm. "That bitch. That fucking bitch." He began an agitated pacing. "What is with her? She gets off on playing with people's lives. Shit. I can just imagine how pissed off she was to hear about the deal I made with Ron."

"Ron?"

"Da’Mico. The marshal that went undercover with me. He must have gone to bat for me pretty hard to get her to agree." He halted suddenly as a thought hit him. "What if she backs out? It would be just like her to find some shitty loophole and throw me right back in there." He started pacing again. "I'm going to have to leave the country. I'll go to Argentina. Do you have Louis's address down there?" His voice rose as he ranted. "I've got to get the hell out of here. Fuck. What if I can't get a passport? She could totally block me there. This is a nightmare. This is -- "

" _Mike_."

Harvey practically yelled his name, which got Mike's attention. He froze, staring at Harvey. "What?"

"Gibbs is out."

A beat of silence. "Oh." He cocked his head to one side. "Care to elaborate?"

"Let's just say I found the skeletons in her closet. One anonymous e-mail later, they kicked her to the curb so hard she's probably still picking concrete out of her teeth."

Mike stared blankly, feeling dazed by all of these revelations. "That is … totally satisfying to hear."

"And," said Harvey, a slow smile transforming his face, "I've got a new gig. So far, I'm representing a Knick, a Met and a Buck."

"As their agent?" At Harvey's confirming nod, Mike let out a crow of laughter. "Holy shit, Harvey. Show me the fucking money."

"Well. Not so much at that moment. But it will come. And it was never about the money for me. You know that, right?"

"I did. That's great. Congratulations. You are going to slay. You're going to have the best balls in the world." He was ridiculously, over-the-top happy. Harvey was going to be okay. More than okay. A sizeable portion of Mike's mountain of guilt disappeared at that moment. He couldn't stop smiling. Harvey smiled back, face creasing attractively.

As the moment stretched and stretched, Mike stirred restlessly. It seemed there was nothing left to be said. "Ah." He set his bottle on the table. "It was good to see you, but I should probably go."

"Why did you leave?" asked Harvey before Mike could stand up. "That morning. You took off so fast."

"And you let me." He heard the sudden anger in his own voice, and it took him by surprise. "I mean, you'd just got done telling me your girlfriend insisted you stay away from me. Like a – a – disease or something. I could hardly fault her logic, but I'm not going to lie. It stung a little."

Now Harvey looked angry too. "She's not my girlfriend. She wasn't then, and she's not now. She was acting as my attorney at the time, and the advice made sense. There was a lot going on. Everything was moving so fast. You threw me for a real loop that night. I may not have been thinking clearly."

"Oh, I get it. Really, I do. Everything was breaking apart. We were all busily cutting our deals, and cutting our losses. And I knew your reputation. Fuck 'em hard and show 'em to the door when the sun comes up. I just never imagined you would do that to me. To _me._ _To me, Harvey._ You taught me everything I know about loyalty, and I gotta tell you, _that was not goddamn loyalty._ " He shouted the last few words, and was surprised to realize that he was shaking with rage.

Harvey regarded him seriously for perhaps a minute. "You showed yourself the door," he finally stated quietly. "I assumed you regretted what happened, and wanted to get away as fast as possible, and forget the whole thing ever happened."

"Is that what you did? Tried to forget it?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I did."

Mike stood then, jumping to his feet and striding toward the door, desperate to get out before the threatening tears began to fall.

"But I couldn't," said Harvey to his retreating back. "I couldn't forget you, and I couldn't forget what happened, because that was the best night of my life."

Mike froze with his hand on the doorknob. He bit down hard on his lower lip, using the pain to bring control to his emotions and his voice. "Mine too," he rasped. "By a mile."

He didn't hear Harvey's quick steps, but felt his hands on his shoulders, and didn't resist when Harvey turned him around and moved against him, mouth descending to capture his in a kiss that made his knees liquefy. He grabbed handfuls of Harvey's shirt to stay upright. Strong hands dug into his hair, moving his head this way and that as Harvey claimed his mouth straight down to his tonsils.

If Mike thought of Da’Mico at all during the kiss, it was only a fleeting recognition that _this_ … this was so much more, this was real, and this was where he was supposed to be. The marshal had kept him safe, and brought him a small measure of joy in an impossible situation. For that he’d always be grateful. Compared to this, though, what they’d shared had been a weak counterfeit.

When the kiss finally ended, the world felt like it had flipped on its axis. All of the fear and stress of the past months melted away, and Mike felt clean and whole again. As he rested his head against Harvey’s shoulder, he didn't know how the rest of his life would unfold, but he was happy for the moment to simply exist as a blank slate, and let the future write his story.

 

**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
